1 - 9

"Freeing yourself was one thing, claiming ownership of that freed self was another."

― Toni Morrison

I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Don't be afraid to comment, I love hearing what you all have to say and any theories/thoughts on this - I know it's different than my usual books

Part One - Chapter Nine

"The Protected Little Dragon"

Athanasius has never really cared much for people—but he cares about them.

He hates social situations that he has to actively get involved in. He's far too awkward to know how to handle it all and conversation, let alone emotions, have never really been his strong suit.

Social cues escape him, body languages are difficult to figure out when he doesn't know quite what someone is, and words mean different things to different people. He'd rather someone think he's rude for ignoring them than outright offending someone.

New people give him a lot of anxiety. He doesn't like going out in public. People are scared of him for no reason, they're standoffish or they're weird or too pushy.

But if something happens, if he needs to protect someone—even a stranger—he will.

Ras always found it funny, that no matter how many years went by he never really got over the awkwardness he carried as a youngling. He thinks it's ironic that the brute would start a fight for someone he doesn't know but not a conversation.

He thinks that if words were as easy to wield as a sword, it'd be different.

Dragons are, for the most part, isolated creatures.

His people do not like outsiders and they don't take well to change. They live in groups, with their hoard and their hoard alone, and they're fiercely protective of who they consider theirs. Friends aren't only friends, they're family.

When he was young, a teenager to his people but a being decades old to others, his den was attacked and killed. He was the only one left.

He became angry, vicious. He learned how to fight in both forms, he perfected the use of his magic, he turned himself into a weapon. Never again will he lose a hoard. Never again will he be considered weak, never again will he love something so much and lose it.

Meeting Ras calmed him, mellowed him out.

She introduced the brute to books, founding the love for stories and myths and legends.

A phoenix lives for centuries and so would he, they were each other's before they were Oziamon's—two familiars traveling anywhere and everywhere doing whatever they wanted to.

Then they ran into trouble.

A large, cruel group of witches with weak, overused familiars came to them in the middle of a large city searching for the 'Blood Beast'. Dragons are rare and they hadn't known what he was, just that Athanasius was strong and that he would be worth a lot to the right people, that he was red and ready for bloodshed.

They fought them easily but one of Ras's wings had gotten injured.

That night, a street rat followed them to their camp, barefoot and hungry.

He was a young witch who had seen the fight and, homeless and desperate, offered to help heal the wing in exchange for food. He had been used by the group as a fuel for magic.

The witch was young but talented—clever in a way that for all their years, neither familiar had seen before. Smart, fast on his feet, and most importantly, kind.

Two years after that they bonded.

A year later they discovered a way to slow Oziamon's age to match theirs.

It's hard to keep track of the time but it's been a while since their coven moved into the small town they're currently in—the townsfolk are gentle and magic-friendly. They're regarded with a sense of both fear and respect, seen as ancient beings or welcoming cryptids.

They've been around for generations, after all. They've been around longer than most of the creatures who inhabit the town have been alive.

They created ties here, created a home. When every other building fell and was rebuilt, when the clothes changed and the people went and came, when the sky darkened and year and year went along, they stayed.

They thought that their trio was finished, that the three of them was all that they would need. Athanasius thought that, too.

Getting to know someone new was exhausting, let alone trying to get to know them well enough to want to bond with them. They were content with just them, with their magically infused home and small shop in a small town.

None of them wanted more—then little Aster came into their lives.

Aster, Athanasius had dubbed the little thief, because the only glimpses he could catch of the small creature was of him falling out of a window or through the leaves of the aster tree, where the coven knew he had a little den.

He was determined, tough, a survivor.

At first, it had started with the wards telling them someone was in the shop while it was empty. It started with a soft, golden magic pressing into the walls as something stalked around at night. It started with misplaced first aid kits and a messily opened chest.

It started with handfuls of rocks replacing wildberries and water bottles.

It started with that, and devolved into something more.

Oziamon, a naturally curious person, set up wards to keep track of the tiny thing and his health and any worrying emotions. The little thing was hurt but it was a constant, probably something minor. Fear was prominent, but the creature cared so much about everything.

They were clever too, just like Atlas's witch.

They were never spotted, didn't stay for long, but were sneaky enough to escape their notice—escape beings who've lived for longer than this town's true foundations have stood and fought things far more powerful than whatever he was.

Aster was smart but young, it was obvious by what he took and his magic's imprint. Obvious that he was inexperienced, alone.

He wasn't very powerful compared to them but powerful enough to make even Ras a bit antsy when confronted with a strange creature's golden magic. His scent, too, was strange. It set off warnings in Atlas's mind but they were jumbled—he could never quite make out what they meant.

Slowly, each of them began to care about a creature they've never met.

Then the storm came, the worst they've seen in decades. Flooding and trees falling and hard, cutting wind. Aster was small and alone and, they suspected, had nowhere safe to go.

None of them wanted him out there, defenseless.

So the coven went out, searched, tried to follow the magic trail, but the fear from the townsfolk and the raw magic from nature and other's imprints quickly made them lose track in the harsh thunderstorm.

It was still storming when they came back to the shop.

The magic trail was there, leftover, they thought. Then they saw the food left out, the rocks, then Athanasius heard the small, pounding heartbeat and saw the little, terrified dragon perched on their shelf.

Catching the baby was traumatic for both of them, Athanasius's sure.

He doesn't think he'll ever forget those terrified wails, no matter how long he lives.

They never wanted more, wanted a fourth. But this little dragon was theirs. They all cared about him, teasing and nervousness to mess up aside, they care.

The scars tell a grueling story for the hatchling.

Someone had hurt the runt and when Atlas finds them, they're going to regret it. He's going to make them rethink their whole life and then he's going to give them a death that makes them forget it all.

He's going to make them into nothing.

Then, he's going to kill them, turn them over to death's capable hands.

Whoever they were left traces of their magic over the hatchling's broken leg and marks like a fine layer of dust—it's corrosive, distinctive. Ras' been working on finding out their abilities, Oziamon on tracking them.

They do this while running their shop, while taking care of the baby.

He's put on a healthy amount of weight and has come out of his shell far more than Athanasius was even hopeful for. He's smarter than they originally thought but also more scared; leftover fear from whoever gave him those scars apparent through every interaction.

Aster curls up next to the ancient dragon at night, constantly purring in his sleep. He has nightmares, though, and the purring will turn to whimpers and wails but Atlas doesn't think the little one remembers them when he wakes.

He lets himself get held, mostly by the other familiars but he's slowly warming up to Oziamon—who is fearful of what the hatchling being terrified of magic entails.

He eats willingly, most days. The runt has a troubling relationship with food.

Ras thinks it's because whoever had him last used it as a punishment.

Athanasius doesn't like to think about it. He gets so angry, too angry, and with the hatchling being able to tell moods far easier than he should, getting angry wasn't much of an option.

It's small things that keep the protectiveness centered instead of the urge to rip someone apart.

Aster willingly shows the ancient dragon his hoard—a lovely collection of miscellaneous objects—and has become more vocal about his needs or wants as of late. His wings aren't weak, they can carry his weight even when a runt so young shouldn't be flying yet. They have no holes and barely any scars, a miracle that they were left intact.

And the hatchling's leg has fully healed.

Aster is no longer in any pain and, yet, he refuses to shift.

Athanasius has yet to bring it up to Aster but he's planning to do so soon. He's honestly a bit afraid that the hatchling doesn't know how to shift back to his other form.

Ras is afraid of this too—Oziamon does not truly understand the fear. He has no other form, he cannot contemplate the utter panic of being trapped into only one, into being limited as only half yourself.

They're talking about it now, well past midnight, while the runt sleeps on, blissfully unaware of their concern.

"Has he mentioned anything about shifting?" His witch asks, pale hands running through tangled hair. Ras pulls his hands away before he can begin to pull—a bad habit they're still trying to break. "I mean, he has to want to, doesn't he? Familiars don't just stay in one form for so long."

"We only talked 'bout it once," Athanasius says. He stares up at the ceiling while slowly petting the white and golden-stained dragon sleeping on his chest. "And it was to make sure he understood that I was goin' to shift. He knew he couldn't while he was still healin'."

"Could he be hiding an injury we don't know about?" Ozzy wonders aloud.

"Nah," the ancient dragon shakes his head. "I'd know."

"How?" the witch asks, leaning closer to the nest to peer at the two dragons.

"I don't know how to explain it, Oziamon," Athanasius sighs. "It's just... knowin'. I'd feel it if somethin' were wrong with 'im. It's like my chest goes a bit cold for no particular reason, inexplicable."

"It's the dad instincts, mate," Ras laughs slowly. "I got them with Oz, little bastard gets hurt all that time."

The ancient dragon freezes, chest tight at the word dad.

He doesn't disagree though, because he doesn't think he physically could without all his instincts roaring at him. Dad, him? Him. He can be that.

The hatchling needs a protector, someone who can take care of him properly.

And, well, if he can be that for Aster—and he wants to be that—then if 'dad' is the title that comes along with it, if being a parent is part of that territory, then so be it.

"Not my fault I'm clumsy," Oziamon shrugs, grinning a bit at their oldest.

"You'd think after bein' alive for so long, you'd learn how t'control your limbs," Atlas drawls, softly rumbling when the runt shifts in his sleep.

The movement makes his witch pause in his reply and just flips him off instead.

He rolls his eyes—his witch is a child, sometimes.

They're quiet for a few moments before Ras sighs and reaches over to pat Athanasius's knee—his legs the only part of him not in the nest. "We'll figure it out, love, we just have to give the little guy some time."

Atlas is good at being patient but some part of him thinks, haven't we already given him enough?

"Mhm," the ancient dragon frowned. "Time."

It's the only thing left they have to give at this point.